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OTHER VERSE 85
He's handsome, even thus afar,
His noble beast bestriding; I see my daughter's tender look,
As wistfully she gazes, And mother watching, 'neath her lids,
The blush the rider raises.
That gallant horseman coming here,
So often at sun-setting, And mother's anxious looks with tears
That oft her cheeks are wetting, Are signs to me, that, growing old,
Some day I will awaken To find my place, as master here,
By that young horseman taken.
Cando, the boy, was poet, heaven-born, For in his young life's fair and rosy morn The melodies of forest, hill and dale, The low, sweet song of wooing nightingale, The stillicide of snow and sleet and rain, The saucy echo's mocking, wild refrain, The buzzing of the honey-laden bees Among the bloom of peach and apple trees, And music from all nature softly stole To sweep the tuneful wind-harp of his soul.